


the fire in her eyes

by evenifwecantfindheaven



Category: Coco (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 10:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17897117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evenifwecantfindheaven/pseuds/evenifwecantfindheaven
Summary: A series of drabbles I've written about how I imagine young!Hector and young!Imelda got to know each other (aka the whole fandom's favorite subject because Imector is the OTP). Yes, these are in chronological order. All songs referenced were part of this movie and are owned by Disney as is the rest of this world. The drabbles can also be found on my tumblr therubbleoroursins.





	1. What color is the sky?

In that moment, Hector Rivera would have been happy for the dirt beneath his feet to swallow him whole or for the sweltering Mexican sun to make him burst into flames.

On his thirteenth birthday, he had promised himself every morning that this would be the day that he finally spoke to Imelda Solis. And every day, he walked by her, looking intently at his shoes, or the ground, or something equally mundane, feeling with every fiber of his being the presence of the most extraordinary girl he had ever seen. Her voice, warm and soothing when she spoke to her friends and family, harsh and clipped when she was being slighted, would consume the space around them, permeating the air, stealing Hector’s breath and his voice. And he would go to bed that night, hating himself, for not saying anything to her.

How hard would it be to just say _hola? Buenos días? Cómo estás?_ I like your shoes? You look good today? He said those things to girls he hardly knew all the time. Sometimes he said them to Ernesto’s girlfriends without even knowing their names. But Imelda was different. She was special.

It had been eight months. And he still hadn’t talked to her.

And then one day, he found himself standing alone in the market, waiting for Señor Cordoba to finish making a loaf of bread for him to buy, when she came over to the stall. And she stopped. And she stood there. Next to him.

 _“Hola_ …Hector, is it?”

“Uh… _sí._ Imelda?”

_“Sí.”_

She was smiling. She was looking at him. She was…waiting for him to say something? Oh god…what could he say? Could he compliment her on her…he looked her up and down, her hair, eyes, smile, face, arms, legs…crap, there were too many things and he’d probably say just the wrong one…so no compliments. He should ask her a question. What was she there to buy? How was she today?

And instead, what came out of his mouth was…

_“¿De que color es el cielo?”_

That…was the stupidest question that he had ever asked in his life.

It might be the stupidest thing that anyone had  _ever_ said in their life.

Oh god…he had ruined his chance.

The most amazing girl in the whole world had come right up to him. Had introduced herself to him.  _Had known his name_. And he had blown it by saying the six stupidest words that had ever been uttered in the whole Spanish language. No, the whole _world._

_“Rojo.”_

Hector blinked.

“What?”

“It’s red.”

Hector actually looked up at the sky. It was pure periwinkle blue. Not even a welcome dash of white. Nothing even remotely resembling red.

Hector looked back down. His eyes landed on Imelda’s face. Her warm, brilliant eyes twinkled. She was amused…but in a good way. She wasn’t making fun of him. She didn’t think he was an idiot. She  _didn’t_ think the earth should swallow him whole so that she’d never have to talk to him again.

Maybe…she even liked him?

“I’ll see you at school, Hector,” said Imelda, as she turned around. He watched her raven black curls bounce as her feet brought her away from him. He watched her threaten to beat the fruit stand man with a pole over the price of tangerines. He barely registered as Señor Cordoba came out with the loaf of bread and asked for his payment.

Because all Hector could think about was that today was the first day in his life that had ever mattered.


	2. does anyone know?

_“Conoces ya a Imelda?_  
 _She's a woman you'd never forget_  
_Her strength is like iron_  
_Her voice like an angel's  
_ _And her smile feels like coming home_  
Her...”

Héctor paused, his fingers hovering over the guitar strings. He frowned. What should go next? Or should that have been the end of the first verse?

 _“Her knockers, they drag on the floor  
_ _Her skin’s wrinkled as an elephants…”_

“Ernesto, shut up!” Héctor snapped, tossing an avocado pit across the room at his friend.

Ernesto doubled over cackling, less at his own jokes than at how much he’d annoyed his younger amigo. Which was unusual. Normally Héctor was a willing participant in their horseplay and teasing. Except...

“Wait a minute. Isn’t Imelda the name of the girl you had that massive crush on three years ago?”

The lanky teenager sighed as he sat up. _"Si."_

“ _Ay,_  you’re not writing this song to..try and find her, are you? It's been more than a year and a half since her family left Santa Cecilia. She's gone.”

“Hey,” Héctor balanced his guitar on his knee. “I just want to win this singing competition so we can buy some real mariachi suits and start performing for real.”

“Then why don’t you write something people will actually want to listen to? Like a song about knockers?”

“Very funny, Ernesto.”

“I hate to break it to you, _amigo,_ but no one is going to pay you to get up on a stage and pine over your boyhood crush. Not even with my handsome face accompanying you.”

Héctor rolled his eyes, but he had to admit that Ernesto had a point. He must. If even his best friend thought this song was stupid, the rest of Santa Cecilia probably would, too.

But maybe he could still save the melody? And the structure?

 _“Conoces ya a …Teresa?  
__Her eyes the color of…ash  
__Her face.._ no. _…teeth stick out  
__And her chin goes in  
__Her knockers they drag on the floor  
__Her hair is like a…thornbush  
__She stands in a bow-legged stance  
__And if he weren’t so ugly  
__She might give Ernesto a chance”_

The last line of the run-through, as Héctor had predicted, had Ernesto splitting his sides with laughter. Mostly because he found the idea of himself being ugly so ludicrous he wasn’t even offended by it.

“There goes that brilliant mind of yours, Héctor!  _This_ is the one that’s going to win, I know it!”

“Thanks,” Héctor smiled. “It’s not done yet, though.”

“I figured as much. Because if you're singing about Teresa Hernández, she doesn’t have much to drag.”

“I wasn’t even thinking of her. Or Teresa Garcia. That was just the first woman’s name that came to mind. I should probably change it to a name that no one in town has.”

“Good idea. Change it to something horrible. Like…Juanita.”

“Juanita? Isn’t that the name of the girl you met in El Paso who refused to kiss you?”

“The one who had nothing in front  _or_ behind? Yes, that’s her.”

Hector smiled and shook his head.  _Ay, amigo. You would be so lost without me._


	3. count it as a blessing

People had questioned Imelda’s choices all her life.

Her choice to wear a bright red dress with purple trim to her quiences (which she made herself, because her mother was dead). Her choice to have her little brothers dance the first dance with her (because she and her father weren’t speaking). Her choice to work as a waitress to support her family (instead of just getting married and leaving the twins to fend for themselves). Her choice to get into political arguments with the customers, male and female alike, whenever the classist and sexist arguments came about.

“Someone tell that waitress that if she shuts her mouth, no flies will come in.”

If her manager was around, he would shake his head and mutter, “Believe me, I’ve tried.”

But this, her decision to allow a man eight months her junior visiting from Santa Cecilia to court her, was perhaps the most questioned of all.

“He’s a seventeen-year-old mariachi, he’s never going to marry her!”

“I always knew that poor, stupid  _chica_  would ruin her life.”

“Can you blame her for falling for it, though? I can’t imagine that any other man had ever wanted her, and then he struts into town seranading her and calling her pet names?”

But she didn’t fall for him because of the pet names (which she had rolled her eyes at), or because he’d dedicated his song to “that beautiful _senorita_ in the purple dress” (which hadn’t hurt), or even because he’d asked twelve-year-old Oscar and Filipe‘s permission to ask her out on a date without a hint of insincerity, and ended the interaction with a reminder that a woman should be allowed to choose who courts her no matter what, but that he was grateful for their approval.

Imelda ended their third date, which took place in the plaza on a warm afternoon, by getting into an argument with Ernesto over the rumored women’s rights protests in America and Europe. Something that she knew full well would end a relationship with the wrong man.  _Most_ men.

“Look, I’m not saying that all women are  _completely_ stupid,” Ernesto has calmly explained. “There’s just a limit to how much power they should have. Besides, a woman will always vote the way her husband votes anyway, so in reality, this is just a ploy to get more votes for married men.”

Before Imelda was two sentences into her planned tirade of criticisms, Ernesto turned to Hector and smiled.

“ _Amigo_ , would you tell your girlthat if she shuts hermouth no flies will come in?”

“No,” Hector scoffed. “But I do hope she says that to you.”

A few minutes later, Ernesto stormed away from the plaza in a huff.

 _“Lo siento, cariña._  Ernesto can be a bit…unrefined.”

Imelda sat down beside Hector on the edge of the stage and folded her hands in her lap.

“If that’s the way you feel, then why do you stay with him?” she asked.

“Sometimes, I wonder that myself,” Hector chuckled. “But it’s been just him and me for a long time. A long time ago, our fathers had a leather-making business together. So Ernesto and I sort of grew up together, like  _primos._  When Ernesto's parents left town, my father took him in. And then my parents died. And Ernesto and I have looked out for each other ever since. All we had was each other. We worked to keep ourselves fed. I taught him to play guitar. We started playing and writing songs together.” Imelda shot him a doubtful look. “Well,  _I_ write the songs, he helps me work out the tune by playing it as I write. This one time he tried to write a love ballad, and it devolved into something about wrestling in less than a minute. But the real reason why I stay with him is because other than my family, he’s the one person who’s always believed in me. He genuinely believes, with every last nuance of his soul, that I am a brilliant musician and songwriter. That my music has the ability to touch the hearts of the world.”

And Imelda found herself saying, “There might be other people who could see how brilliant you are, too.”

And she found herself sliding her hand into his hand.

“People who are a bit less… _unrefined_.”

And she found herself leaning in towards him, using her other hand to guide his lips to hers, and holding them there for much longer than anyone ever should in a public place.

There were plenty of people around to judge her for that, too. But she didn’t care.

Because for the first time in her life, she had found someone who never would.


End file.
